


Hurry, Hard!

by zeffyamethyst



Category: Hockey RPF, Original Work
Genre: M/M, Slap Slap Kiss, blatant misrepresentation of Canadians, boys being stupid about each other and their feelings, there's curling, there's hockey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeffyamethyst/pseuds/zeffyamethyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 2022 Winter Olympics and the most complicated thing in Scott's life is trying to win gold for Canada. At least, until he meets Joshua.</p>
<p>Joshua, the Captain of the Men's Curling Team, with the mean left hook and the freckles who gives a whole new meaning to the word 'complicated.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The title comes courtesy of Cattails. Curling is a weird and addictive sports yo.  
> 2) I don't pretend to know everything about hockey or anything about the Olympics and I know absolutely nothing about curling, so take everything in this story with a grain of salt.  
> 3) Scott swears a lot and uses some problematic languages. So, apologies in advance.

It's totally the curlers' fault. Well, one curler. And, okay, also maybe Hughesy.

Marc Hughes is the best defenceman Scott can ask for, but he's pretty much an unmitigated asshole when drunk. Also when not drunk, but he's a different kind of asshole then.

It goes like this: Scott's nice and toasty tipsy at the Canadian Winter Olympians meet and greet. It's a couple of months before the Olympics and the party's both a publicity stunt and a country bonding exercise thing. Scott's talking to the skiers about Tokyo and getting corralled into becoming their unofficial interpretor. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned he could speak fluent Japanese but that's not the point. 

The point is, halfway through, the curlers sidle over and start trying to recruit Scott to be their unofficial guide too when Hughesy says, four beers too loud, "Jesus, how's sliding a rock on ice a sport?" And Scott could just punch him cos _rude_.

This one curler, who's all of five foot six and a hundred pound soaking wet to Hughesy's six foot three hockey body, steps in closer and says, "Excuse me?" all dangerous and low.

Hughesy pushes himself off Scott's shoulder, grinning. "Yeah, midget?"

Oh God, is Scott the only one who remembers they're in the goddamn public? A quick glance around reveals that yes, he probably is. The skiers are watching this showdown with a schadenfreude kind of fascination while the figure skaters, a few feet away, are wearing catty smirks. And the less said about the curlers the better--Scott's pretty sure he saw money passing hands, which is beyond the pale.

The curler's lips twist, his eyes going spitefully thin, and it's the most epic bitchface Scott's ever seen. 

"I don't think anybody who plays a sport where knocking teeth out is much more important than winning has any room to speak," he says, more than a hint of distaste to his voice. Hughesy's still grinning but their corner of the room has suddenly gone quiet. Scott starts looking around for their Captain, only to find him all the way on the other side, making nice with the media. Fucking fuck, Scott thinks.

"Hughesy," Scott starts, a second too late. 

"Lemme guess, midget, you couldn't cut it in peewee hockey?" Hughesy says because, and it bears repeating, he's a fucking douchebag. 

Scott almost doesn't see the curler move--there's a left arm swinging up, he hears the wet sound of fist striking flesh, then Hughesy Is hissing as he stumbles back with a hand over his jaw. 

Inappropriately, Scott's first reaction is admiration. Like, a horrified kind of admiration, but still. 

Then common sense catches up and all of that exhilaration drains away, leaving behind a yawning pit of horror. Someone needs to get control of this before it becomes an all out brawl and they get kicked off the Olympic squad, and since everyone else is enjoying this way too much, it's up to Scott. It'll be just like the blind leading the blind. 

Scott flings his arm around Hughesy's shoulder, hand landing on his chest, which conveniently means Scott can put all of his weight into holding Hughesy back. Hughesy has rage and indignation on his side, Scott has survival instincts and the depths of his desire to make it to Tokyo. It's not even a contest. 

"Hey, whoa," Scott says, almost right into Hughesy's ear, "Let's fucking not, man. Not tonight."

The curler watches them with his feet braced, hands clenched into fists by his side, and Scott prays to any higher authority that the dude has the sense to not aggravate things further. Scott pretty much manhandles a fuming Hughesy around, shoving him until he's facing the other way, then pushing him with both hands out of the danger zone. It's a struggle but Scott is a very determined Asian hockey player who's had years of dealing with numerous family members in a righteous rage. 

A couple of the figure skaters nearby smirk at him as he walks past, one of them even patting him on the arse. Scott really hoped that was a hand. Hughesy elbows Scott in the stomach, snarling, "What the fuc--"

"No," Scott says, determinedly, dodging another elbow. "We're not doing this, dude. It's not gonna look good, you hitting the curler. You wanna get on that plane, right?"

"He fucking started it!" Hughesy snarls. Scott tamps down his first response, which is to strangle Hughesy into submission, and pats him on the back then all but shoves him into the bar.

"I know, buddy," Scott says, trapping Hughesy against the bar with an arm over his shoulder. "Here have a beer."

Hughesy's attention is immediately captured by the magic word, like a kid with a shiny new alcoholic toy. Scott gets Hughesy very drunk, very quickly, and with a few jager shots in him Hughesy completely forgets about the curler. 

***

The next morning, hungover and regretting his entire life, Scott goes to track down the curler. What happens is he finds Carl whose girlfriend, Jay, is a speed skater, who knows a figure skater, who happens to be friends with one of the curlers. Thank God for the great Canadian Connection, basically.

Scott learns that the curler's called Joshua, he's the team's captain, and everyone expects him to bring home the gold. Like, everyone. Also, that he's had more than a few anger management problems--such a surprise--and he's a sucker for timbits. Amidst all that information is Joshua's room number but since ambushing him outside of his room is a level of creepy Scott's not ready to commit to, yet, he makes a trip to the nearest Tim Horton's. 

He gets coffee for himself and the biggest box of timbits he can wheedle out of the coffee girl. In case he misses Joshua coming down for breakfast, Scott ends up lingering in the foyer, which gains him a few concerned looks from the other athletes but Scott's on a mission here. 

Finally, Joshua steps out of the lift, bundled up in jeans and a Canadian jersey. Before Joshua has the chance to make his way to the bistro, Scott steps in front of him.

At the dinner, the lights had been too dim and the alcohol too much for Scott to get a good look at the guy. In the stark morning sun he looked years younger than Scott had first assumed, especially with the scatter of freckles over his cheeks and ears that stick out at an unfortunate angle. And oh hey, there's that bitchface again. 

"What?" Joshua says, all suspicious. 

"Uh," says Scott, the master of eloquence now that he's actually got to apply diplomacy to a situation. "Hi."

Joshua's face smooths away into pure annoyance, which is a nice change from all that hate. "Yeah, hi. What do you want?"

"I'm Scott Kanda," then, when Joshua doesn't look any less annoyed, he adds desperately, "Hockey?"

"I know that. I'm Canadian." Joshua sounds less than pleased by either of those facts.

Good point. Scott gives up on words and figures action speaks louder. "Here," he says, and Joshua has no choice but to take the packet of timbits, what with the way Scott shoves them at him. 

"To say sorry," Scott says into the confused silence. "For Hughesy. Marc. Uh, Marc Hughes. Shouldn't have said what he did." There's that small matter of how maybe Joshua shouldn't have freaking punched Hughesy, but it's true that Hughesy started the whole thing. And anyway, Scott's here to make nice not place blame, so whatever. 

"Like I care," Joshua says, rolling his eyes.

"Um, you obviously do dude," Scott says. And then, because Scott's mouth apparently wasn't on board with the making nice plan, it adds, "I mean, you punched the guy. That's pretty much the epitome of giving a shit right there. Who the hell does that anyway?"

"It was a legitimate response," Joshua says darkly. Wow. 

"Anyone ever tell you you're crazy?" Scott's traitorous mouth says.

Joshua scowls. "Aren't you meant to be apologising?" he says pointedly.

"Sorry you're crazy?" Scott officially gives up on trying to control his smartass mouth.

To no one's surprise, Scott's words are followed up by an explosion of pain across his jaw. 

***

Scott's been on the receiving end of too many "you've disappointed me" speeches for them to have an impact anymore. Still, props to Dillon Price's delivery of this particular version. He's got the "you're a role model" bit and the one on how getting involved in a fight is beneath Scott, meanwhile his eyebrows are dancing all over his face. It's definitely oscar worthy. But it's nothing compared to the master; Scott's sister. 

Addy calls him a couple of hours after Dillon Price's masterpiece, and Scott's wincing even as he picks up the phone. "Hi, Addy," he says.

"Hi, Scott," she says dryly. "Why did I wake up this morning to a picture of you yelling at Joshua Callaghan?"

"What the fuck?" Scott demands, justifiably not down with the idea of his sister knowing what he got up to in Vancouver. "It was Carl wasn't it? Why does he have your number? I hope you know he has a girlfriend."

"Scott, focus," Addy says, firmly. 

Scott takes a deep breath and says, "It wasn't my fault." Then winces. It's never a good idea to start on the defensive with Addy. 

"Oh, Scott," Addy says, fondness colouring her voice. "You're not actually ten anymore and professional athletes don't punch another professional athlete without a reason"

"How would you know?" Scott says. He's not sulking, as such, he's just annoyed by his own family member taking a side that wasn't his. That most of the right side of his face is aching isn't helping matters.

"I've spoken to him a few times at charities," Addy says, continuing before Scott can demand more information. "He's brusque but on the whole a good conversationalist. Better since those anger management sessions." 

Scott doesn't even want to contemplate it but it sounds an awful lot like Addy enjoys Joshua 'Punch First, Don't Ask Questions Later' Callaghan's company. That's depressing and wrong on so many levels. He'd ask how she knows Joshua but he can guess; Addy does tv sports panels, curling is a sport. It's not exactly rocket science. Scott almost wants to say, "you're my sister," but he can almost guarantee how that'd go down. 

"But Addy, it really isn't my fault," he whines, earning himself an eyeroll from his roommate. Whatever, it's his room too, he can whine if he wants to. 

Addy sighs, and says, "Tell me what happened."

Scott does. He might, maybe, paint Joshua as a completely crazy person but that's an accurate representation, he feels. 

At the end, Addy hums, then says, "That could've gone better."

"It's not my fault! He's crazy!"

"Be that as it may, you have to be the better man here. Go talk to him, apologise properly this time, and try your best not to get into another fight."

"But--"

"Scott. Please." 

Scott can't say no to that. To the ‘please’ or the tired way she says his name.

***

The apology goes something like this:

"Look, we both made mistakes. Can we just pretend none of it happened?"

"...Fine. And I guess I shouldn't have punched you."

"No, you think?"

"Seriously?"

"Okay, you're right. It's over and we never have to speak to each other again. Deal?"

"Deal."

***

But of course that's not the end of it. Somehow, his teammate finds out about the whole thing and takes to being jerks about it. Scott blames Carl, because Carl is a fucking shit stirrer.  
Snazzy wakes Scott up the next morning with a phonecall. "I hear you punched by small Canadian," Snazzy says his thick Russian accent, instead of hello like a normal person. 

"What the--Snazz c'mon, it's four o'clock," Scott groans. "Why are you--"

"I knit you scarf to say sorry you suck," Snazzy continues, ignoring Scott's attempt to bring logic into the conversation. Knowing him, the scarf'll probably be bright pink. The asshole. 

"Die, fuckwit," Scott growls into the phone and hangs up.

After Snazzy comes all these text messages. Jace's one reads; congrats on losing your man card. 

While Moxxie's one just says; duuuuuuuuuude. 

Connor leaves Scott a voice message that's basically him laughing for two minutes straight. Honest to fuck, Scott has the worst teammates ever. Thanks to the four o'clock wake up, it's a struggle for Scott to sound coherent for the cameras the rest of the day. He thinks he might have sworn on camera, then again he didn't receive any wry disappointed calls from Addy, so maybe not.

When Johnny proposes that Team Canada, Hockey Edition go for a bonding drink, Scott is initially about to refuse. He just wants to collapse face down on his bed and die until tomorrow, but Hughesy steamrolls his protests. He tries to point out that he's underaged but Johnny assures them that he knows a bar where they won't get carded, and hey, boy's a native so presumably he knows his shit. All of his excuses gone, Scott gives in to the inevitable.

Johnny takes them to this place that's out of the way, and because it's Canada, they get recognised the minute they step foot inside. But because it's also /Canada/, after a few dozen signatures, they're left in relative peace. 

As much as Scott was against Johnny's idea, he can't deny it's a great one; some of the guys are clearly on edge for one reason or another but once the alcohol kicks in suddenly everyone's friends. Talk inevitably turns to hockey but they're good about it and just shoot the breeze and shit. A few dickish comments get made but other people make an effort to pretend they went unsaid so it's all good.

At one point in the night, Carl slides into the seat beside Scott, a shit eating grin on his face. It's perfectly legitimate for Scott to be worried by this, and he's proven right when the first thing Carl says is, "Heard you and Hughesy both got cleaned out by Joshua." 

"Fuck you and your face," Scott says, supporting his chin on the hand holding the beer. "You could've, I dunno, warned me." They were ex-teammates and Division buddies, so that wasn't too much to ask.

"Where's the fun in that?" Carl says, because he's a sadist. "Anyways, I didn't think he'd slug you one. You're normally smoother than that."

That is absolutely the worst part. Scott totally is smooth, and a natural people's person. He's charmed way angrier people than Joshua, and he has no idea where he went wrong. "Whatever. Dude's bizarre. Aren't curlers meant to be cheerful and shit?"

Carl sips at his whiskey on ice, which he always orders because he thinks it'll make him look more mature. "Not Joshua. I think he's the repressed serial killer kind of Canadian."

Yeah, Scott can see that. "Whatever," he says, waving his hand. "The Athlete Village is huge, I'll never have to see him again."

"Kind of a pity," says Carl, starting to grin. "I had money on Joshua." 

Scott needs new friends. Ones that aren't assholes. 

As the night wears on, Scott feels his mood draining away, until it's ten o'clock and he's ready to crash. Maybe it's the excitement catching up to him. Or maybe it's Snazzy and his stupid as fuck phonecalls. Whatever the reason, he calls it a night when he finds himself staring way too long at the one spot. A few of the guys offer to go back with him, but he doesn't want to ruin anyone else's night so he waves them off and grabs a taxi by himself.

It either says something about how little he drank, or how good his body is now at dealing with alcohol that by the time he gets back to the hotel he's mostly sober and the freezing wind takes care of what time didn't. It's kind of nice though, standing outside for a couple of minutes, the air leaving his mouth in thick white plumes. Scott's so busy trying to make rings out of it that he's not watching where he's going, so of fucking course he'd run into someone. It's that kind of night. "Get off of me!" a familiar voice snarls, and an elbow lands in Scott's spleen.

Oh come on, Scott wants to say because what the fuck. Seriously. "Jesus Christ, you again?" Scott huffs around the sharp pain in his stomach. God, he hopes there isn't a theme developing here or anything. 

Joshua and he are standing close enough that Scott can see the moment recognition hits him. He likes to think Joshua's expression softens into mild contempt before loathing completely takes over, but it's probably the cold talking. 

"Don't blame me for not looking where you're going," Joshua snaps. 

"I can blame you for being too short to see," Scott grumbles, then takes a pre-emptive step back.

There's this desperate look on Joshua's face and his fists start to clench. Then, by some miracle of miracle, he just makes this snarling, growling noise and turns away. "Whatever."

"That's it?" Scott says to the air, watching Joshua walk away. Maybe there's still some alcohol left in him because he rushes to catch up to Joshua at the hotel door, one hand stretched out to grab his elbow. Until his survival instincts catch up to him, and he settles for awkwardly clearing his throat. 

"What?" Joshua says, stalking over to the lifts, Scott right on his heels.

"You're not gonna do violent things?" Scott says, a little nonplussed for no reason that he can name. 

Joshua stabs the up arrow with a viciousness Scott tries not to take too personally. "Would you like me to?" he asks, his glare making it clear that he's more than willing if Scott is going to keep being an idiot. 

"There's something wrong with you," Scott tells him, and considers it his public service duty done for the day.

"You're the one stalking me," Joshua says. 

The lift arrives with a musical chime, and Scott waits until they're inside before he says, "I don't think it's considered stalking if I, you know, happen to be staying at the same hotel as you."

It possibly isn't a good idea to annoy someone like Joshua when stuck in an enclosed space with him, but Scott never got anywhere by being smart. Mostly, he got where he is by being stubborn, single-minded and taking risks. Maybe that's the key to the whole thing; if he treats Joshua like a particular shitshow of a game, where there're more hits than shots on goal. 

"Stop talking now," Joshua orders.

It's lucky Scott is the worst at listening to people. "How'd someone like you even get into curling? I thought that was totally, like, a gentleman's sport or something."

Joshua fully turns around to look at him. "Do you actively try to be a dick? Or is it some kind of talent?"

"Um, have you met you?" Scott says, raising his eyebrows. He refuses to believe Joshua can be that oblivious.

Joshua's lips thin and he snaps, "Blow me."

"Not on a first date," Scott says, answering Joshua's question in a roundabout way.

He doesn't try to tamper down the amused triumph he feels when Joshua goes a dull red. It's hilarious, and Joshua deserves it. Of all the things Scott's said to Joshua, this seems to be the breaking point, and Joshua just keeps getting redder and redder. Scott's never seen anyone look so relieved as Joshua does when the lift arrives on his floor, and Scott makes sure to smile obnoxiously as Joshua leaves. 

It's when he's back in the safety of his own room Scott admits to himself that if it'd been a legitimate offer, he'd have taken it. Scott's mostly into girls, but at some point in highschool he discovered he's into sucking dick as well, which, whatever, it's not a big deal. His taste in dudes is about as indiscriminate as his taste in girls, and he thinks Joshua would be really feisty in bed. Maybe leave bruises and scratches behind, and yeah, Scott can get behind that. So to speak.

Good thing he's going home tomorrow. He probably wouldn't survive Joshua's special brand of not so affectionate violence, no matter how much he wants to try.


	2. Chapter 2

That bizarre little side trip in life over, Scott goes back to the daily grind of hockey season.  
He has a few days off before a string of away games begin, and he spends it buying furniture because Addy's been making noises about the state of the couch. Scott has his own place downtown, but in the season he mostly ends up crashing at Addy's place anyway. Especially after Addy's divorce, when she had too much going on to deal with Charlotte and David too. Scott wasn't always around as a teenager, when he was playing hockey all over the country, so he does his best to be there for his family now. 

And just like any good family, they insult his taste in couch fabric, colour and shape, but decides it'll do anyway. Not that Scott cares, he's got to focus on hockey. 

The Hurricanes are in the race for a playoff spot and with Moxxie and Jackson out on injury, the rest of them have to pull their weight. They have three away games then a couple of home ones before the Christmas break and the away games go all right; two regulation wins and a shootout loss but the home games are a shitshow. No two ways about it. More penalty calls and gloves dropped than in any of the games previously, and they lose by an embarrassing amount. It sucks to disappoint the fans, and it sucks to go into the holidays feeling like shit. 

Scott tries to cheer up though, for his family's sake. It's easy enough when it turns out David has a girlfriend, and Scott and Charlotte tease him mercilessly. Addy does her best to keep them under control but David reacts so beautifully. 

Charlotte takes him out to a Tim Horton's on Boxing Day because, "We need to fill you up with the good shit before you have to go south again." 

There's a weird moment where Scott's eating timbits and he's reminded of Joshua. But it would be even weirder to keep thinking about it, so he doesn't. He just enjoys his freaking timbits. 

"Hey, I saw Zoe the other day," Charlotte says as he's eating the last of his greasy treat. 

Scott kind of freezes but Charlotte's watching him so he forces his mouth to keep chewing. "Yeah?" he says eventually.

"Yeah," she says with a perceptive look Scott doesn't like. "She says good luck and that she's coming to Tokyo for a conference around the same time."

"Mmhm," Scott says, like he doesn't know why Charlotte's telling him this. It's nice of her to care, but there's a reason Scott and Zoe didn't work out and no amount of puppy dog love is enough to overcome all those personality differences. Charlotte's a romantic at heart though, so he doesn't tell her any of this. 

He distracts her with badly sung Christmas carols, and two days later when he's off for another round of road games, he's forgotten all about the conversation. 

Because life sucks balls, this away series starts off with a game against the Tornadoes where Snazzy catches a puck with his mouth /and/ they get their arses kicked. On the plus side, it can only get better from there, and it does. They catch a bit of good luck in the next game, winning in regulation, and it's like the guys pick up the energy from that game. Scott leaves for the Olympics feeling fucking amazing, the Trilliums are currently third in the division, Moxxie's making a coming back, and Scott's scored his twenty-third of the season. 

He meets up with the rest of the team in Vancouver, before they take the plane out to Tokyo. Hughesy's there and so's Carl, and they descend on him like locusts. "How's Snatkin?" Hughesy asks, which is fucking rich because he's the one who shot that puck in Snazzy's face. 

Scott just shrugs because what happens in the league stays in the league, or whatever. 

The plane ride is another one of those bonding experiences; three babies and four kids who won't stop running all over the place. Scott loves kids but what he loves even more is getting to give them back. A nine hour flight is just too long to spend with any kind of small humans. 

"Hey," Hughesy says when they've landed at some godawful hour of the morning, "Good to be back home?" He drags Scott's bag off the carousel and throws it at him.

"Home? What? I've never been here before," Scott says, stacking his bag on top of Carl's. 

"Yeah, but, you speak the language, right?" Hughesy says. "And you're--" He waves at Scott's...everything. 

"Yeah, my parents were Japanese. But I've never actually been in Japan, dude."

Hughesy does this awkward shrug and finally stops talking, maybe realising that he sounds like a racist dick. 

Japan is nothing like Scott expects, full of noises and colours and smells that are at once strange and familiar. It's like being back in his grandmother's kitchen, waiting for dinner to cook while she'd keep him occupied with sweets. Scott definitely needs to plan an alcohol-fuelled culinary tour of Tokyo while he's here. He might even be generous and invite Carl along. Also, he should probably call his grandmother. 

Rooming's completely by lottery, so Scott ends up with Marion Cole and Alex Fraser as his Olympic roommates. Alex is nice, kinda quiet Scott finds, but friendly enough. He throws Scott tips and tricks on the ice and they stay out of each other's way otherwise. The fact Alex is captain for a rival team is something Scott chooses not to dwell on for at least the next couple weeks.

Cole, though, is something else. Scott's used to weird, Charlotte and a childhood in an all boys catholic school being his measuring sticks for that kind of thing, but Cole is like, a level above everything he's ever encountered. Maybe not a level, more like an alternate universe. 

At times it seems like Cole's a functional human being, who smiles and shows glimpses of a personality. But at other times, mostly when they're on the ice, he's a demonic creature from the deepest depths of hell who thinks suicide drills are fun. Scott is legitimately terrified of Cole when he gets like that. So while there's a small part of him that's disappointed he's not on the same line as Cole--the kid's fucking amazing, Scott can admit that--a larger part is glad he won't have to fear for his life if he misses a pass. 

Instead, Scott ends up on the third line with Carl and Santi Castillo. He and Carl come with some pre-made on ice chemistry from their time in the juniors, and Santi fits right in. 

Scott might have been happy, playing world class hockey with world class players, if not for Cole's miniature break down. He has no idea what the fuck went wrong, except that one evening Cole comes storming out of his room and announces, "I need to get drunk."

The x-box controller falls from Scott's hand, and he says, eloquently, "Uh."

Cole repeats his statement, like it'd make sense the second time around. 

"Why?" Scott asks wishing Alex is here to make sense of everything, but he's out tonight with some of his Edmonton buddies.

"I--" Cole's face spasms, and Scott chalks it up as another failed attempt by Cole to make any sort of human expression. "I don't want to talk about it."

Under any other circumstances, Scott would say no but there's some kind of rule about leaving your Olympic buddy hanging. And while intellectually, Scott knows it can't end well, him having to be responsible for another person's well being, Cole is practically about to vibrate out of his own skin, he's that agitated. Kind of reminds Scott of David, and goddamit, screw his older brother instincts. 

"Yeah," he says on a long sigh. "Okay. Gimme a sec." 

He sends Alex a quick text while he's changing clothes; taking our baby bird out to get smashed. Don't wait up.

The reply comes just as he's leaving; don't forget morning skate. Because Alex is secretly aiming to be named Team Dad.

A quick google search tells Scott there's a bar just down the road from where they are. It's got good reviews, but the way Scott figures, as long as it has alcohol, they're set. Cole's less jumpy when Scott comes back out, but he keeps fiddling with his phone, checking it over and over as they go down in the lift. 

Scott can't help himself. "Is this a hockey thing or a girl thing?" Or dude, he adds silently, but hockey players get weirdly touchy about that shit. 

"It's nothing," Cole says, in a tone that means the conversation's over. Give the kid a couple of years and he'd make a good captain. 

"I need to match my pep talk to the topic, man," Scott says, shoving his hands deeper into his coat. They're predicting snow later today, which will be fucking awesome cos if it's going to be this cold, there better be something to make up for it. 

"You give pep talks?" Cole says, looking down at Scott from his two inch height advantage. He looks, and sounds, sceptical.

"I give fucking awesome pep talks," Scott says. 

"It's not a girl," Cole says firmly, which totally means it is because Scott's in touch with his feelings and shit. But Cole looks so miserable and angry that Scott lets it go. He can be patient and wait till the kid's drunk to question him properly.

The bar google takes them to is full of Japanese salarymen who gives no shit about hockey. Scott gets them a table in the back and orders them whatever beers on tap to start off with, then a whiskey on the rocks, and finally a vodka shot for each of them to finish it off. If Cole can keep his mouth shut through that, he'll eat his hat. 

He apparently overestimated Cole though, because he's drunk and starts talking shit halfway through the whiskey. Scott is reluctantly impressed by how mean Cole can be when he gets like this; with scathing diatribes on everyone's playing style and chances of playoff victory. The kid's plain vicious. Scott has to ditch Cole halfway through a rant on goalies to get more beer for himself--he can't do this without more alcohol, he just can't. 

Instead of just beer however, he ends up ordering a shot of jager with a beer chaser, and it hits him a little harder than normal because, he just remembers, he hasn't had dinner yet. So he's kind of woozy, and feeling generous with the world, which explains why when he looks across the room and sees Joshua, he's not surprised. Of fucking course he'd be here. 

And Joshua catches him looking too, so Scott can't even pretend this isn't happening. This is probably some kind of omen, of what Scott isn't too sure, he just gives in and makes his way over. 

Scott spends the walk trying to think of something inoffensive to say, and he comes up with some good ones. What he ends up actually saying is a casual, "Yo."

"Urgh," Joshua says, sour as anything. Scott doesn't take offense though; Joshua seems to exist in a perpetual state of disgust and disappointment with the whole world. 

"Do my eyes deceive me? Is this you having fun? In a bar?" Scott says, leaning his hips against the table. Joshua pointedly shuffles further down the bench. Whatever, just means there's now space for Scott to park his arse. 

"I'm not having fun," Joshua says, glaring at Scott's everything.

"Yeah," Scott says, smiling lopsidedly, "You're right. It might actually kill you to look happy, we shouldn't take the chance."

"I can smile," Joshua says, and scowls harder.

"Yeah?" Scott says again, and the alcohol's making him stupid because he leans into Joshua and says, "Prove it. I'll bet it's a knockout." And he grins, stupidly proud of his pun.

Joshua goes into bitchface mode, but Scott sees the faint blush. "No thanks, I'd rather knock you out the traditional way," he says darkly.

"Maybe if you ask nicely," Scott says agreeable as anything. "I never say no to a little bit of kink."

Joshua splutters, literally; choking on whatever he's drinking--Scott bets it's non-alcoholic--and tears coming to his eyes. "Man," Scott says, impressed. "You really don't know how to deal with flirting."

"That's not flirting," Joshua snarls, voice hoarse, "That's harassment."

"Eye of the beholder," Scott says, waving his hand. Speaking of, Scott sees Cole emerging from his drunken stupor and start to look around. "Oops, responsibility calls. It's been fun, Joshua. I'll see you around." 

Giving Joshua a chance to say anything sounds like a stupid idea, so he leaves before Joshua can recover from his slackjawed anger. 

Cole is a sad, sad thing when Scott gets back, having finished the whiskey while Scott had been gone. He's all slurred words and vocal disappointment about everything. It's only nine o'clock, but with the morning skate tomorrow, Scott's not about to risk staying out. Scott finishes off his beer in one go, and donates his whiskey and the vodka shots to the table next to them. Cole's surprisingly pliable when he's drunk, and goes along with whatever Scott says. Thank God for professional athlete reflexes and coordination that remain even when higher faculties are gone. They get back to the hotel without much trouble, where Alex is waiting for them. 

"I didn't think he'd be this much of a lightweight!" Scott says to Alex's disapproving face. 

"Here," Alex says, holding out two bottles of water. 

Scott is a good teammate and makes Cole drink both bottles before he lets the kid go to bed. 

"All good?" Alex asks, when Cole's sleeping it off. 

"Dunno," Scott answers honestly. "Maybe."

Understandably, Alex looks not at all reassured by this.

This is why people shouldn't look to Scott for emotional support, he barely knows how to deal with his own much less anyone else's. But for reasons unfathomable to Scott or the universe or by any rules of common sense, Cole chooses to latch onto Scott off the ice even though there are three other players from his team that made the cut for Team Canada. None of those three take offence at this, in fact, Donohue even thanks Scott for taking one for the team. Hughesy and Carl call him the babysitter because they're such original assholes, but Scott doesn't mind? Kind of. Hanging out with Cole means having to witness him be awkward outside of the context of hockey and sometimes he wants to strangle the kid, but mostly he watches all of Cole's bizarre attempts at personality with fond resignation. Like how a mother duck must feel watching her most retarded young struggle to swim. 

The answer to Cole's weird mood arrives a couple days later with the US women's hockey team. Jenna Caris is one of three females playing in the NHL, which makes her pretty damn recognisable. For a whole month after her drafting, Scott couldn't watch a sports panel show without there being some mention of her, usually accompanied by the same freaking draft picture. They play in different conferences, so they rarely go up against each other, but the last time the Hurricanes played the Kings was also the first time Caris had recorded her first shutout this season. Basically, what Scott's saying is that the girl's worth all the hype surrounding her.

So when she turns up to one of their practices, everyone takes notice. She doesn't exactly return the favour, just parks herself at one of the front row seats and gives off the distinct impression that she'd rather be anywhere else. The only time her expression changes is when she's looking at Cole, and then her face goes a whole lot saltier.

The real shock is when Cole returns her glare for glare every time he passes her. There's not much that'll take Cole's attention away from hockey, not even other players, so this is an anomaly that has Scott fumbling his drills. He's just really concerned, okay? As any good friend/pseudo-brother/teammate would be. 

And it's not just him either, the other guys aren't exactly subtle looking between Cole and Caris, and practice starts going downhill. By the point Perry's so distracted he lets in Hughesy's messy top shelf, Scott decides he needs to nut up and take one for the team. The next time Coach calls for a small break, Scott ditches the dudes and skates for Caris. He sees Cole's eyes widen, arm reaching for Scott's jersey but he trusts Carl and Hughesy to have his back. 

"Hey," Scott says as he skids to a stop in front of Caris.

Caris' face relaxes out of that scowl. Scott is a connoisseur of all people good looking, and when Caris isn't pulling a snarling monster look, she's pretty. If you're into girls with caramel brown skin, crazy long legs and a wicked smirk, which Scott is. So, y'know, by his approximation Caris is totally out of Cole's league.. 

"Hi," she says, giving him a once over that feels like she's stripping him naked, socks and all. 

Scott taps his stick against the board, thinking about how he's going to approach the situation; subtle is probably the better idea but he doesn't have the time or patience for it. Before he can decide, however, Caris leans forward and says, "You keep going for the same fancy shot, man. Just straight up five hole that shit." 

"You meant to be helping me?" Scott asks, indicating her Team USA jersey.

Caris shrugs. "Only saying. I feel sorry for your pathetic ass. You Canadians need all the assist you can get." 

Okay, damn, Scott takes it back. This is definitely not the kind of girl Scott can see Cole going for. She's mean. "You're here to see Cole?" Scott says, bringing it back to the topic at hand.

"Nah. Well, kinda." She pulls out her phone, texting someone back. Once she puts it away, she looks up at Scott, grinning. "I need to go actually but do me a favour? Tell him he should come by to the fun side tonight for a thing. You too."

"Me?" 

"Yeah. It's a North America party and the Canadian curlers are invited." Here, her grin gains an edge. 

"I really don't want to know, do I?" Scott says, though he's got a good idea. Carl's girlfriend went to an American college and Scott's seen her hanging around the red, white and blue crowd.

"Jay and I were roommates back in college," Caris says confirming Scott's suspicions. "Anyway, see ya, dude. Remind Cole to get that stick out of his ass."

Having dispensed yet another sage advice, Caris leaves the building. Cole looks hilariously worried when Scott skates back, a constipated expression on his face as he makes an obvious effort not to corner Scott and interrogate him about Caris' intentions. 

Caris turns out to be right; the five-hole does the trick.

***

"Yo, dude, change your clothes. We're gonna go visit your girlfriend's side of town."

Cole looks up from the computer, an adorably confused expression contorting his face. "Who? Where?"

Scott throws open Cole's closet and surveys what he has to work with. It's not much. Does the boy not know what colours are? It's all shades of brown and grey in here. "Team USA. And Caris," Scott throws over his shoulder as he digs out a promising looking shirt. It's a pale green tee with some weird eagle print on it. It'll go fine with Cole's grey jeans of which there are many. 

"Do you just buy out the whole Banana Republic pants section? Or is this Jay Jay's? Fuck, don't tell me you're an American Apparel yuppie. I might have to disown you."

Cole takes the clothes Scott throws at him, plus all the verbal abuse, without any comment. Though that might be because he's so busy being affronted and shocked by Scott's assumptions. "Jenna's not my girlfriend," he says, frowning. 

"Yeah, for sure," Scott says, cos like he cares. "Hurry up, okay?" Then he goes to badger Alex into doing the same. 

When Cole comes out, he's done something to his hair that makes it look like a bird's nest but at least he made an effort; Alex insists on wearing plaid and jeans. "You look like a lumberjack," Scott tells Alex, shaking his head.

"I come from a long and revered line of lumberjacks," Alex says with a proud tug of his shirt. 

"Could you be more Canadian?" Scott wonders. 

"And what're you meant to be? Male stripper?" Cole pipes up, the traitor.

Scott looks down at his black shirt and dark jeans combo, and looks back up. "Nah, more like, strip club bouncer." He flexes his arms for show. 

Cole and Alex both make sounds of disgust and head out. God, Scott's starting to regret turning Cole into a real boy if this is the thanks he gets. If, maybe, he deliberately dressed down so as not to give a certain curler any ideas, well, it's his business isn't it? 

Team USA's place is a couple of blocks down and the weather's nice enough that they walk the distance. The longer he stays in Tokyo, the less Scott wants to leave. He could see himself coming back here for reasons other than hockey, could buy a place maybe right in the heart of the city where he'd be surrounded by the food and smells and sights of Japan. He's pretty sure his siblings wouldn't mind, Charlotte especially because she's always talking about wanting to travel. 

It's pretty damn obvious where the party is all the way from the start of the street. If the balloons aren't a clue, then the bass thumping, gut vibrating strains of Party in the USA sure is. 

Scott thinks he hears Cole mutter, "Fuck my life." So in a show of support, and to prevent him from running, Scott throws his arm over Cole's shoulder. 

"It'll be great!" he says, as bright as he can.

Caris is the one who opens the door, and the moment she sees them, her whole face lights up with wicked glee. "Finally come out of your cave?" she says with a lazy grin, eyes only for Cole. Cole can say what he likes, but Scott's definitely picking up a vibe from them. 

Cole says nothing for a moment, looking Caris from head to toe and back again. Caris seems fine with the survey, and keeps grinning even as Cole pronounces, "You should probably stop dressing like a hooker."

On Cole's other side, Alex makes this choking, dying sound. "Jesus Christ." 

"Hooker, huh? Like you could even afford me," Caris says, rolling her eyes. 

"Like I'd want to," Cole returns, in the meanest kind of way. Scott's never heard him sound like this before and with that hair, Cole looks like a really disgruntled kitten. It's the most hilarious thing. Caris obviously thinks so too, winking at Scott. 

"A'ight," Caris says, clapping her hands. She turns around and starts pointing. "Food in the kitchen. Booze everywhere. Ponty is out by the pool."

Scott has no idea who Ponty is or why he should care about their location until he notices Alex's shoulders loosen, and he ducks past Scott with an apologetic smile for Caris. Oh yeah, Scott'd forgotten Alex played with one of the other three NHL chicks; Valentina DuPont. She's also pretty fucking amazing on the ice, probably because when you're a girl in a man's sport, you had to be right on top of the ratings to get the naysayers off your back. 

With Alex gone, Caris quickly drags Cole off to play vodka pong, which sounds awesome, and leaves Scott to be a free agent. Most of the people here are Americans, and mostly female hockey players, neither one of which Scott has a problem with, it just means he doesn't know many of them cos he doesn't pay that much attention to the women's league. But with the hivemind that all Canadians have, Scott stumbles into a room full of them completely accidentally. They greet him with a roar and someone presses a bottle of Molson into his hands. Again, mostly chicks in here.

He recognises some of them by face--Jay and Kavo for example--and some of them by their name but the majority remain strangers. They don't seem to mind, chirping him goodnaturedly about slumming with the girls. Still, Scott resolves to wiki them when he gets home, because it's kind of embarrassing and he keeps hearing Charlotte's feminist voice in his head berating him. One of them, a figure skater by the name of Toby, turns out to be the one who'd slapped his arse at the shitshow of a meet and greet. 

"That's an interesting name," Scott says, when they've been introduced. 

"Not particularly," Toby says, waving her hand. "My parents thought they were having a boy, then didn't have the imagination to come up with a female name."

Scott nods, though inside he's wondering how freaking hard it would have been to put off naming her for a couple of hours or whatever. "Figure skating, hey? Canada?" 

She has an accent Scott can't quite place, but that doesn't mean anything with all these dual citizenships running around. 

Toby laughs, not meanly but it's not quite hitting the nice note either. "God, no. Russia. And I pair-skate with that one." 

'That one', turns out to be a guy sitting two couches over, the very example of tall, dark, and handsome with a side order of anger management to boot. He looks over at Toby's pointing, and gives Scott the mother of all unfriendly stares. Scott gamely salutes the dude with two fingers at his temple, but nothing. Man, at this rate, he's gonna start wondering if he lost all his charms. 

"That's a figure skater?" It's not Scott's fault he sounds so sceptical, this guy's as big as a football player and there's nothing about him that screams sparkly one-piece.

"Surya. And three world golds say yes."

Huh. Can't argue with that. As Scott keeps looking over at Surya, trying to make sense of it, he leans forward to get some chips, revealing the person sitting next to him. Familiar dumbo ears and the faintest scattering of freckles.

Joshua and Scott stare at each other behind Surya's back, equally surprised. On Scott's part, because he didn't expect to run into Joshua so soon. But really, a roomful of Canadians, what did he expect? 

At first, Joshua looks on the verge of leaving, but then sets his face, and after murmuring something to Surya, he squeezes between legs and the coffee table to come stand in front of Scott. "Stalking really isn't attractive," he says in greeting.

Scott's a little offended, honestly. Is it his freaking fault that Canada's such a small country? He opens his mouth to say so and the first syllable escapes before he notices the corner of Joshua's lips are twitching. "Screw you, man," Scott says, laughing because he can appreciate a good joke. And Joshua needs all the encouragement he can get. 

"You know Toby?" Joshua says, looking between them. 

"Just met. Although she did goose me one before we even knew each other," Scott says, grinning when Joshua draws back, startled. 

Toby shrugs, unashamed. "It's a nice ass. Surya finally bore you out?"

"He keeps talking about how much he hates the Canadians," Joshua says. "My patriotism can only handle so much." 

Toby eyes Surya, then nods. "Definitely too much to drink. Excuse me, I need to remind him we have morning skate tomorrow." 

Scott shuffles over, sort of managing to look between the now empty sofa seat beside him and Joshua without looking invested in the result either way. Amusingly, Joshua's expression almost mirrors his when he sits down. "How's, uh, practice going?" Scotts asks. Curlers had to practice, right?

Really, Scott's the worst Canadian. 

"Fine," Joshua says. "You're not drunk yet."

"I'm testing out this whole new theory. Apparently you can have fun without alcohol as a crutch. Who knew?" Scott says, wondering if he's in some kind of alternate universe. Joshua seems almost friendly and personable today. 

"Well, don't strain yourself," Joshua says with a bite to his words, and that's much more familiar. 

"At least I'm enjoying myself," Scott says, grinning to show he's joking. 

Joshua's chin goes up, an almost mulish look crossing his face. "I'm enjoying myself."

"Yeah," Scott drawls, "I can tell. What with the smile and everything."

The response to which is a prissy quirk of the eyebrows, and the finger. "I believe you!" Scott says, holding up his hands, palms out, laughing in the face of Joshua's bitchface. "This is me believing everything you tell me." 

"I don't know why I promised Surya I'd give you a chance," Joshua mutters, glaring over Scott's shoulder. 

"Oh shit, I'm on trial here? Okay, do over." 

"No," Joshua says flatly. 

Scott's had years of training his ears for the 'no' that's secretly a 'yes'. Not in a creepy, rapey way--Addy gave him a lecture on that and everything when he was fifteen, he knows 'no' means 'no'--but in a, 'convince me' kind of way. And Joshua? Much as he might deny it, wants to be convinced. Scott is good at reading people, that's his schtick, whatever, and though Joshua fucked with his social-dar in the beginning Scott's starting to get a handle on the weirdo. 

"I'll make it worth your while?" Scott says, closing the distance between them. 

Joshua glares. Scott grins. 

And that's how they end up giving each other handies in the bathroom. 

Okay, there's a bit more to the story than that, but the stuff between's boring. They meet these Russians, vodka becomes involved, Scott gets distracted by the way Joshua keeps licking his lips, suddenly there's Joshua sitting on the bathroom counter with his legs hooked around Scott's hips and their hands down each other's pants. The music's just bass and guitar riffs through the door, which gives Scott an opportunity to appreciate every little noise that Joshua lets out, every whimper when Scott rubs his thumb over the slit. Scott's not exactly being quiet himself; he thinks positive encouragement is important, especially when it comes to sex, so he lets Joshua know exactly how well he's doing. 

Joshua's eyes are fixed on their hands, except for when Scott strokes just so and they flutter close, like it's too much all at once and Scott gets that. "Hey, can I?" Scott asks and his voice sounds way too loud. 

It takes Joshua a moment to focus, which makes Scott grin. "What?" Joshua asks, blinking.

"I wanna suck you off," Scott says, understanding that Joshua is not in a place to appreciate euphemisms. "And I'm pretty good at it. So you should say yes."

"Uh. Yes?" 

Joshua sounds less than sure, but Scott's confident he can be convinced given time and Scott being his awesome self. 

"Cool," Scott says, grinning. He steps back--the sound Joshua makes at that is an amazing ego boost--and pulls Joshua off the counter. Joshua's hands maintain a white-knuckled grip on the counter as Scott drops to his knees, careful not to bang them cos that's not something he wants to explain to the team doctors. 

Scott leans in, looks up to make sure Joshua's watching, and slowly licks the head, collecting precum on his tongue. Joshua kinda chokes, his eyes going wide, and bites his lip, which is a shame. "You should make noises. And feel free to, like, fuck my face or whatever."

"Please, please, please shut up," Joshua mutters, uncurling one hand to run it over his face. 

"Just in case," Scott says, and cheerfully gets back to making Joshua lose his mind. 

In case it wasn't abundantly clear, Scott really likes sucking dick. It's not something he advertises to the whole world, obviously, but it's a part of himself that he's come to terms with. A hand lands on his head, curling into claws, but not quite gripping, and Joshua's hips makes short, abortive thrusts, like he's not sure he can take Scott at his word.

Too much for a first hook-up, maybe. It's not that much of an effort for Scott to change his tactic. While what he'd told Joshua is true--he doesn't mind his partners being in charge of the situation--there's something to be said for holding someone down and making them take it. He braces his forearm across Joshua's stomach and keeps his other hand wrapped around the base of Joshua's cock and goes to town. 

It doesn't take Joshua long and he's polite, and still with it enough to warn Scott, which is very, very appreciated because jizz and beer, not a taste fusion Scott's fond of. He pulls off and uses his hand instead, and Joshua drags him up, and, okay, this is a program Scott can get with. 

"Awesome," is Scott's verdict several minutes later, puffing out the word into Joshua's shoulder. 

"What the fuck?" is Joshua's but Scott forgives him. Orgasms make people say stupid things. 

They clean up with whatever's at hand--toilet paper and cold water--and rearrange their clothes as close to 'what no, we just didn't have sex in your bathroom' as they can get. Scott's hair is a total loss and so's Joshua's shirt. Hopefully everyone is too drunk to notice anything out of place. 

"So," Scott says, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "Good luck. With the games."

"Yeah, you too," Joshua mutters, and slides out the door. 

Well, okay. It was going to be one of those then. Scott shrugs, tries to fix his hair once more, then goes to hunt down Carl to see if vodka pong was on the table.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I am so sorry for the quality of this chapter. And I'm so sorry for how long it took. I have no excuses for it other than it being a hell of a month (aka NaNo) and I'm really bad at writing romance. No lie, which is why I'm writing this I guess. 
> 
> Also between work and this sci-fi fic that is seriously kicking my butt updates will be irregular and well spaced out. Apologies in advance.

When Scott had called Cole a demonic hockey creature from the deepest nadirs of hell, he was apparently talking out of his ass. If he could have gone back in time, he might have smacked himself for his naivete. Pre-Olympic Cole had nothing on Olympic Cole and his frenzied energy. Normally it doesn't affect Scott because different lines and all, but today Coach decided to mix it up a little and suddenly Scott's centering Cole and Alex, who usually plays second line winger. Ten minutes into practice, Scott's in awe of Cole's usual linemates for not having murdered him already. 

Cole is undeniably good at what he does with a kind of hockey IQ that only comes around once a generation but he has no people skills whatsoever. Like, to the point where Scott has to wonder how the kid's gotten so far without having made an enemy out of every media outlet from here to Germany. He's snappy and terse and prone to saying things out of context and looks at you like an idiot when asked to explain. He also has the work ethics of a draft horse and everyone else looks like a lazy dick in comparison. So that's awesome.

Even worse, the coaching staff take their cue from Cole and run them into the ground. Ice. Whatever. It's worse than a bag skate after a shutout. 

"I think I'm going to die," Gus says, collapsing onto the bench. As a rule the locker room is full of chirps and swea-ladened pieces of equipment being thrown around, but not today. Today everyone is just thankful they're alive. 

"Wuss," Scott returns, his head hanging between his knees as he tries to catch his breath. He can't feel his legs, and that's actually the good news. 

"Oh God," Carl says on the other side of Scott. "He's coming toward us. Evasive maneuver everyone."

Scott doesn't want to look up, he wants to curl up in a ball and cry for his mum. He wants to apologise to every coach he's ever cursed in his head because he thought they were being too tough. He wants to slip a chill pill into Cole's water no matter how illegal that might be. However, Addy raised him to be a better man, so he clutches his towel and sits up straight. 

He watches Cole stalk over like a malevolent creature rising from the icy hell of Hoth, a figure in bloody red and virginal white looming ever closer. Scott is disgusted to note that Cole's already changed clothes in the ten minutes they've been off the ice. Couldn't the dude be a little less of a motivated freak?

It swiftly becomes apparent that his target is Scott, and Carl and Gus prove what great linemates they are by swiftly abandoning him with a muttered, "Sorry, dude."

Yeah, they'll be sorry. When Scott kicks their asses later. It's really not bro to ditch him like that. 

"Sup," Scott says and lifts his hand about five inches off his knee. Frankly, that's all he can manage right now. 

"I need," Cole pauses. His face goes into spasms and Scott worries for a second that Cole's having a seizure or something. But no, he realises with dawning horror, it's Cole attempting to look contrite. Jesus, someone needs to teach this kid to properly emote. He looks a little murderous and constipated right now.

"There must be someone who give out amateur acting lessons where you live," Scott says.

Cole frowns. "What?"

"Nothing. What's up?"

With a suspicious look at Scott, Cole tries again. He succeeds. If the measurement of success is a garbled sentence that takes Scott fifteen seconds to decipher. After abandoning everything he ever knew about the English language, Scott figures out that Cole was saying, "I need your help."

"With what?" Scott says, already trepidatious. 

Cole takes a deep breath then says, "How do I apologise to someone for finding out about something they didn't want other people to know? Accidentally." It's said at a marginally slower speed than previously, so it takes Scott only five seconds this time.

"By 'someone' you mean Caris, right?" Scott says, because it's as good a guess as any. And it's always funny to see Cole blush, which he regularly does whenever anyone mentions Caris in his presence. 

To Scott's surprise, Cole remains his usual vampiric pale self. He even rolls his eyes and says, most unimpressed, "No. It's that--" He stops, pressing his lips tight. "I can speak to you later."

Then he nods at this decision he made entirely without Scott's input and walks away before Scott can get a word in. It's not the weirdest conversation Scott's ever had with Cole, but it's easily in the top ten. Scott fondly remembers a time when he wasn't regularly ambushed by a socially retarded hockey freak for lessons on how to act more human. He misses it. 

"What'd our saviour of the gold medal want?" Carl whispers from his safe perch of next bench over. 

"Ditchers don't deserve answers," Scott says, and throws a towel at Carl's affronted face. 

Later, as he's going through his warm down routine, Scott's mind wanders back to that moment. The topic is clearly something Cole doesn't feel comfortable mentioning in the locker room, but that could be any manner of things. To Cole, the ice and the attached locker room is a sacred place in which no non-hockey stuff shall be discussed. So that line of logic doesn't actually narrow things down. The only thing that does help is the fact Cole's awareness of other people is pretty much limited to hockey. So, Scott feels pretty comfortable assuming this "someone" is another hockey player. Which means whatever it is Cole wants should be pretty easily sorted. Hockey players aren't a complicated lot.

***

"It's your curling friend."

Scott, honest to God, chokes on nothing but air. And maybe a little spit. On the TV screen Yoshi dies a fiery death off a cliff while Cole's Princess Peach zooms past. 

"Wha-at?" he says, pausing the game. 

Cole looks like he's wishing the ground would swallow him up already, or that he was back in his cave of a room not dealing with real people. "Your friend. The curler," Cole repeats. 

"Shit, wow, um," Scott says, holding up a hand. "Before you keep going, and you definitely should keep going cos this sounds fascinating, I need to correct everything wrong with that statement. Joshua is not my friend. Friends don't suckerpunch friends." 

"You were talking to him at the party," Cole points out, for once following Scott's advice and paying attention to his surroundings. He could not have picked a worse time to be obedient. 

"I was talking to a lot of people that doesn't mean I'm friends with all of them," Scott tries to protest. 

Cole sighs, like it's such a huge ordeal for him, and says, "Fine but _he_ only talked to you. And the ice skaters but I don't know them."

God, how Scott wants to keep arguing the point but they're drifting away from the original topic.  
"Jeez, whatever. Let's just go back to the part where you saw Joshua doing something, what was it?"

Because seriously, what was the point of the Olympics if you couldn't indulge in filthy gossip about your fellow countrymen. 

So of course, at this point, Cole loses his attitude and his shoulder hunches up around his ears, eyes going from tv to chair to Scott's hair back to tv and repeat. "Uhm, well," he trails off.

Oh shit, is Scott's immediate thought. Does Cole know about the bathroom incident? They'd been fairly discreet, he thought, but they were also drunk and as just amply proven, Cole isn't that oblivious. And then he figures that Cole probably wouldn't be speaking to him if that were the case. Kid probably wouldn't even be able to look him in the face. Still, his hedging isn't comforting Scott at all. 

"Cole, what did you accidentally find out about him?" Scott asks slowly. 

"I can't tell you that! It's not my secret," Cole says, practically puffing up like a porcupine, then deflating just as quickly. "But it's not...bad? Just might be bad for him if other people know." 

Surprisingly, Scott understands that. Then again, he is a bi hockey player who doesn't hook up with as many dudes as he'd like to because he has no interest in being accidentally outed. Becoming the first openly gay, bi, whatever NHL player isn't his life's dream, he just wants to play hockey and win a lot, someone else can be that guy. Char thinks that makes him a closeted selfish jerk and it's the only fight they've had where Addy had to butt in before they both said something irreparable. If Joshua's secret is anything like his, then yeah, Scott doesn't want to know. 

"Fine, fine. Okay." Scott thinks about it, then just to be sure, "It's not drugs, right?"

Cole rolling his eyes is even more reassuring than his snappy little, "No." 

"Well, okay then. Does he know you know?"

"Uh, yeah," Cole says. "Definitely." 

"Cool. You haven't gone missing inexplicably so it can't be that bad. Just, I dunno, go up to him and be sorry. Just be all, sorry I saw that shit I won't tell anyone please don't murder me." Scott then adds, in case Cole literally takes him at his word, "I'd leave out the part about the murder." 

"I don't--" Cole stops, his lips twisting down. He opens his mouth then stops again. And then, he does that for the third freaking time, and Scott reminds himself that it's not Cole's fault words aren't his friends. But seriously, Scott is going to punch him if he doesn't spit out meaningful and complete sentences soon.

Cole continues to remain silent and Scott's patience quickly dwindles. After twenty seconds of Cole avoiding eye contact and button mashing, Scott sighs and says, defeated, "Do you want me to speak to him?" 

It wouldn't have surprised Scott if Cole had screamed an affirmative--the kid looks that uncomfortable--but somehow Cole maintains his composure and says, "If you don't mind."

So that's kind of that. 

A couple of hours later, he's standing outside of Joshua's room, hand raised to knock. 

If Scott tilts his head, turns himself inside out and then twist himself up like a pretzel, he could make a case for his intervention being fuelled by patriotism. You might even say he's helping secure their chances at multiple gold, because if Cole's distracted by this then he's not playing his best game and Joshua needs to lead the curlers to victory which he can't do if he's worried about his secret being locker room knowledge. That makes sense. 

Scott sometimes can't believe how awesome a person and friend he is. 

That good mood lasts about as long as it takes for the door to open and Scott comes face to face with Joshua. 

They haven't spoken at all since that thing at the party where Joshua's dick was in Scott's mouth and it was actually kinda great, but to be fair, with the opening ceremony preparation and practice no one's had much of a chance to socialise. It'll calm down once the games actually begin, or so Scott's been assured by the veterans. Scott sometimes sees Joshua at the cafeteria but they're always surrounded by each other's team so Scott hasn't had the chance to make sure things are cool between them. Not that he knows how he'd phrase the question if the opportunity did arise. "Hey, sorry I sucked you off in a semi-public place?" or maybe he should go with, "want some tips on how to improve your jerk-off game?"

Either option will probably end with a fist buried in his face but Joshua's reaction before the violence would be totally worth it. Sadly, Scott is here for a reason that's not just fucking with Joshua. So he decides to ignore it. The whole thing. Scott's never had an awkward morning after--or week after, whatever--and he doesn't intend to let Joshua be his first. 

"Yo," he says, waving a hand. "Can we talk?"

Joshua's face freezes in a rictus of horror, What the hell's his problem now? 

Oh, Scott realises right on the heel of that thought, that might have sounded ominous. "No! Not about--that. Something else." 

If anything Joshua looks even more suspicious. God what a jerk. Scott's starting to think that moment at the party was a dream. Or an alternate universe. "I'm busy," Joshua says bluntly. 

"It'll take like, five minutes max. You're not that busy," Scott says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Curfew's in half an hour and he doesn't need Langer getting on his ass. Scott could really do without his captain being disappointed in him this trip. 

Joshua looks like he wants to refuse, looks like he's about to refuse but then he steps forward--and oh wow that's really really close. Scott should step back, like, right now, but his body is busy being surprised so they just end up staring at each other their faces centimetres apart. This is not weird and uncomfortable. At all. 

This close, there are several things Scott can't avoid noticing about Joshua. That he's short, Scott already knows. That his hair is surprisingly soft Scott also knows. What he doesn't know is that Joshua's freaking skinny because almost every other time they'd interact, Joshua had been wearing bulky sweaters and loose jeans. Now though he's wearing an old t-shirt worn thin and a size too small over a pair of ill fitting jeans, and he looks like a teenager. This had the unfortunate effect of Scott coming to the realisation that he doesn't know how old Joshua is and that there was no age restriction to competing in the Olympics.

Okay, _now_ it's uncomfortable.

"Argh, Jesus," Joshua mutters, then barks, "Move." He suits actions to word by shoving Scott away, a feat only possible because Scott's so surprised he doesn't put up any resistance. 

"What--?"

"We're not doing this here," Joshua says over his shoulder and marches off to the end of the hallway, where there's a ceiling-to-floor window looking out over Tokyo. Scott follows because, what else can he do? 

Standing by the window puts them well away from the elevator and out of hearing distance from anyone coming out of their rooms. There're a couple of indoor plants on either side of the alcove that provide cover from the dim lighting above them, and honestly, this would be a great make out spot. If, y'know, Scott was a teenage dude ruled by his hormones. 

Christ, Scott needs to get laid more if he's acting this stupid over a guy who couldn't hold a conversation with a tree without getting into a fight. 

In the interest of finishing this without much drama, Scott says, "Cole sent me. He's sorry about whatever it is he saw you doing and he won't tell anyone."

Given how off the wall Cole was acting, Scott is expecting more of a reaction than Joshua shrugging and saying, "Okay."

His back hits the wall as he draws back to look at Joshua fully, and nope, no surprise or shock or anger there. "Okay?" he echoes.

"It's an English word. Meaning, it's fine." 

Scott is starting to feel like maybe he's in an alternate universe or like he'd had a few too many tequila shots because isn't Joshua meant to be freaking out? Cole made it sound like it's something worth freaking out over. 

Scott shakes his head. "Okay, I gotta know. What the hell was it? Cole's over there going on about privacy and bullshit, and you're just." Scott gestures at Joshua in general. "I don't know. Gotta be honest. This was not the reaction I was expecting."

Joshua fidgets, there's no other way to describe the side to side shuffle he does. His last shuffle brings his face into the light and he's wearing an expression Scott can't decipher. Scott thinks it might be worry. That said, given this is Joshua, there's an equal chance it's annoyance. "Or, y'know, you don't have to tell me," Scott says when a long minute has passed and it doesn't look like Joshua's any closer to answering. 

"He saw an argument I was having with a...friend." Joshua makes another face, this one Scott can easily deciphers. It's the exact look he wears when he talks about Zoe. The exact look anyone wears when they talk about an ex they still have feelings for. 

"Ah," is all Scott says. "Say no more. I get it. Thanks for putting me out of my misery." He's not sure why he's thanking Joshua, only that Joshua wasn't the sharing type of guy and even admitting that much probably took an unusual amount of effort. Scott believes strongly in rewarding people for making an effort. 

Joshua shrugs with that awkward rolling movement of his shoulders. He looks briefly out the window then back to Scott and says, "Was that it?"

Scott draws back, blinking. "Uh...yeah. I guess, uh, I guess I should go now. Curfew and all."

He ducks beneath a palm frond to escape the alcove and maybe to escape the way Joshua stares at him. In the corridor it feels easier to take a deep breath and turn to face Joshua with a grin. 

"You play Germany on Monday, right?" Joshua says, looking down at his shirt to straighten it. 

"Yeah? And you play....uh." Scott wants to maybe hit his head against the nearest flat surface. He's a pretty self-centred guy, it's something he's come to terms with ages ago but he's still got enough shame left to feel embarrassed when it becomes that apparent. 

"Norway," Joshua says, rolling his eyes. Yeah, okay, Scott deserved that. 

"Cool, well. Good luck," Scott offers. 

Joshua rolls his eyes again, though why Scott isn't sure. Maybe because of his lameass reply. Scott wants to roll his own eyes he's that appalled by the trite that's coming out of his mouth. Where the hell did that smooth bastard go? "Yeah, you too," Joshua mutters, then walks away without so much as a goodbye.

Scott is near the lift when he remembers something he wanted to ask before. He turns around in time to catch Joshua unlocking his door. "Hey," he calls across the hallway. "How old are you?"

At first Joshua looks like he just wants to go inside and shut the door in Scott's face, even if it is metres away. Then, just as Scott's about to wave it off as a stupid question, he says, "Nineteen. Why?"

"Oh, no reason," Scott says, feeling immeasurably relieved.


End file.
